


Mourning Air

by kaixo (ballpoint)



Series: a game of feelings and intelligence [2]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Title Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-07 18:59:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6820240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/kaixo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the draw to Chelsea, and seeing the title fly out of reach, everything hurts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mourning Air

**Author's Note:**

> "Purgatory's kind of like the in-betweeny one. You weren't really shit, but you weren't all that great either. Like Tottenham". _-Bruges_

**May 02, 2016**

_After the last tweets of the whistle, the rush of the scrum, Mauricio Pochettino herded his charges on to their coach. Slowly, as if in pain, he turned to face the facade of Stamford Bridge, where their chances of grasping one handle on the title shattered, like porcelain against concrete flooring._

_Mauricio threw his head back, raised trembling fists to the heavens and screamed._

In his head. 

In real time it happens like this: 

Mauricio Pochettino stands at the coach, his arms folded, face an impassive mask as the players file past him, clad in their navy kit, their heads down, their eyes not meeting his. 

Other than the clack of shoes on tarmac, the team silent, the air heavy with sorrow, the procession funeral. 

In a way, it is. Their title charge lay waste on the field with the draw, torn apart by their lack of composure and charged temperament. Football is a game of winners and losers, of vertiginous heights and soul crushing blows. Decisions in the game are a countdown to a bomb waiting to explode, and disaster is averted only if you make the correct choice in seconds. 

Green, time speeds up and against you, ending in disaster. Red, time slows down and you eke out a chance. You can do anything with a chance.

Defeat, Mauricio notes, is on the other side of the coin of football; the coin’s edge, a draw. You never want to see defeat when the coin finally drops. The coin’s edge is marginally acceptable in the scheme of things. 

In this scheme of things, this draw is a loss. 

He feels Jesús hovering by his shoulder, Toni and Miguel are standing a little apart, greeting the players on the bus with a pat on the shoulder, or in Eric’s case, a few exchanged words before he trudges on the steps into the coach. 

“I think,” Jesús says in the careful, solicitous voice one uses for comforting the bereaved, “we should call off training tomorrow.”

The thought stings, because Mauricio realises that Jesús is using that tone of voice on _him_. The throb of pain deepens when Mauricio knows Jesús’ suggestion is the right one. 

It’s not just for the players on the bus- it’s everyone- him included. 

“Okay, okay,” Mauricio says after a while, as he accepts (another) defeat. “No training tomorrow.”

***

Kew Gardens.

Straight up, on a level, Kew Gardens wouldn’t have been the first place that Dele would have spent the day. 

For one, he thought, frowning at the tops of trees in front of him, Kew Gardens was aways from their usual haunts, and number two - he rubbed at the itch on his nose with his fingers- he didn’t do too well with sharp tree scents. 

But then, he thought, looking at Eric’s leaning against the rail of the treetop walk - that was the point.

***

Last night, when Tottenham threw away a two goal lead, and the scrum afterwards, Dele found himself standing front of his widescreen TV, phone in one hand, remote dropping from loosened fingers in shock in the other.

“Dele-”

Dele held up a hand and half pumped at air, a sign for silence. Not that he would have heard Patrick’s chatter anyway, his eyes widening in shock and horror at the sight of Harry holding the ball against his thigh, the camera zooming into his horrified face, his scream long and loud in the outfield after Hazard scored, and slid on his knees, his face wreathed in smiles as he stopped at the end where the Tottenham supporters stood.

The sea of blue and white shirts and players grappling at each other. The camera swinging around and zooming in capturing the carnage now on the side of the field. 

Nine yellow cards for Tottenham. A record. 

Twelve yellow cards and Diego Costa didn’t even figure into the occasion, diabolical. 

The graphic of the Premier League table flashing across the screen, Leicester's name gilded, confirming what Dele had known deep in his bones as soon as the second goal registered on screen. 

Leicester City, the title now theirs. The first time in their 132 year history, the foxes’ cunning, slipping past all obstacles to first. 

Shit. 

Mercifully, the noise cut off, leaving the pictures playing across the screen, and for the first time, Dele wondered what possessed him to buy a TV the size of an old school world map. The pictures beaming out from Leicester’s HQ where people were jumping and screaming, cobalt blue and white scarves waving, froth sparking and ejaculating out of champagne bottles and cans of lager. 

He breathed slow, careful like, slowly trying to process. There was Vardy and Drinkwater over at Vardy's house in Melton Mowbray somewhere, springing to their feet as they knew what the draw meant. 

As good as a defeat. 

It tasted just as bitter. 

“Bad luck,” said a voice, clapping a hand on his shoulder. 

Stupefied, Dele looked at the hand on his shoulder, and past it, only to see the face of his friend, Patrick Bamford, creased in sympathy for Dele’s own plight. 

In Patrick’s other hand, he held the fallen remote. He raised his hand hand to point at the TV and turn it off, but Dele shook his head. “Not yet,” he said, taking the remote from him, and turned up the volume once more. He owed it to his teammates to watch the devastation, since he wasn’t there with them. 

“Sorry, mate,” Patrick stepped away from Dele and started to clear the low lying table of the remains of the meal that he’d made for them both. While Spurs had been two up, the meal tasted _amazing_ ; salmon nicoise, followed by a dessert of almond cake with mascarpone cream and stewed plums. 

Now, the meal pitched uncomfortably in his stomach, and Dele wished that he hadn’t eaten at all. 

Patrick, being Patrick, knew the best way of managing matters when they got a bit delicate. 

“Right,” he said with authority, decision made over the gentle click of crockery. “I’ll make us a cuppa.”

Dele still stood there, staring at the TV, wincing as Carragher went into a spiel about the Foxes, the _improbability_ of their story, the little club taking the bigger clubs on, and winning. Not with big names from big clubs, and bought accolades, but good players from unfancied sides like Le Havre, and Fleetwood town and a formerly derided coach like Ranieri... 

In the background, he heard Patrick busying himself with the dishwasher, the gentle _thunck_ of the cupboards as they opened and closed, the _flick_ of the switch for the kettle as it started to hum. 

Pochettino now on the screen, running his hand through his hair, his face grim as he knew. The world knew, because the maths had borne it out, Spurs’ chances were done this year. 

Dele collapsed into the low slung sofa, his eyes still on the screen. He slipped his phone in his pocket, knowing that he wouldn’t get through to anyone just yet, and wondered which player got the short straw in doing this exit interview. He’d done a few, but those had been kind, on the back of his derring do, or a win, or an MOTM award. 

He’d never done one when they’d lost (drew) and had so much to lose. 

After a loss, he’d quickly shower and change, throw on the oversized headphones to stalk out of the dressing room -straight past the mix zone where the reporters held out their recorders hoping for a juicy quote to hang a byline - making a beeline to the coach. 

Dele hoped that it would be Harry, because Harry had that way about him. 

The talent to sum up the bad parts of their game, to either hold up their hands in defeat to say it was on them, or that old chestnut- _”We were unlucky”_ , with a statement of what their actions would be going forward. Or even Kyle, when called, had the ability to smile at the whole thing, get the reporter on side and make it seem as if it were another day in the office, but just a bad one, “These things happen, you know? We’re a young team, and it’s all experience going forward.”

Yeah, he thought, leaning forward, fingers steepled and pressed against his lips, his thighs supporting his elbows. Let it be Harry or Kyle, preferably. Or, Toby. 

No, not Eric, he thought, as Eric came on the screen, his hair spiky and dark with sweat, face pale save his flushed cheeks and nose. The microphone just out of sight, the reporter’s question a steel fist in a velvet glove. “Eric, wonderful season, but do you feel flattened by what has happened tonight?”

“What is he supposed to say?” 

Dele groused, as Patrick came into the room, tray in hand, the picture Patrick made incongruous enough to make Dele’s mouth swing up in a short bloom of amusement. Patrick’s blond hair styled as if caught in a wind tunnel, he dressed like he always did, in a hoodie with faded denim jeans, and in a nod to the wood and ceramic tile and various rugs underfoot - blue Chelsea socks. 

Dele’s mood would have soured a bit, but Patrick was his friend first and foremost. In his hands, somehow Patrick unearthed a dead trendy navy blue acrylic tray, and set out a proper tea service from whatever was in his kitchen. For all his transient life as a footballer, in the various leagues, Patrick never pretended to be less what he came on this earth as; a lad born to a nice family with a bit of money, and appreciated things being done _well_ at all times. 

“Tea,” Patrick said, handing him a cup of tea. As in, in a cup with a saucer, and a spoon on its side, and not a mug. One sugar, enough warmed milk to make it creamy. Sipping at it, Dele refocused on the TV. 

“Yeah, of course,” Eric replied, a tremor at the edge of his voice, looking somewhere between the microphone and the ground. Dele placed the cup of tea on the coffee table in front of him, because what was he supposed to say? Who decided to put him forward- Dele stopped the thought cold, because he knew Eric would have been the one to step forward if no one else could. At that moment he could only begin to imagine what the mood in the dressing room must have been like if it had overwhelmed Harry enough not to show. Fuck. 

“What happened at two nil?” The reporter’s questions got even sharper. Dele wanted to turn off the TV, because that was his friend up there, hurting at the end of everything. Dele didn’t turn off the TV for that same reason, because if Eric could face the firing squad, he could watch- and did until the bitter end. Each question another hit to the ribs and chest, and Eric flinching at every turn. The parting question as cruel as the result. 

“Leicester, worthy champions?”

Dele sucked the spit from his teeth with annoyance. Like, what was anyone going to say about that and risk the wrath of the public at large? 

“Congratulations, whoever wins is a worthy winner,” Eric finished, his mouth grim, his eyes downcast for much of the question. 

“Thank you,” the reporter chirped. _You knobhead._

“Cheers, thank you.”

Dele switched the channel to some random station. He didn’t want to turn off the TV, because he didn’t want the quiet, but he didn’t want to stay on Sky 1 either. 

“Your team has played like shit throughout the season,” Dele groused to Patrick. “The one time they chose to show up-”

“Leicester are worthy winners,” Patrick smiled, bringing the cup of tea to his mouth and sipping at it. 

For a fleeting moment, Dele wondered if Patrick would have hard feelings if he threw him out of the window of his flat. Head first. 

He settled with a, “Hmmph,” as he sipped at his tea, and it was bloody good tea. 

“Come on,” Patrick leaned over to slap at Dele’s knee. “Leicester is a good story. Relegation contenders last year, champions this year? It's the stuff movies are made of.”

“Not a movie I’d want to watch,” Dele lifted his hips fractionally off the sofa for a second, for easier access to his phone. He tapped out his password on the screen, before flicking it to life. Quickly tapped out a WhatsApp text. Deleted it. “The Jamie Vardy story is bad enough.”

“You’re a sore loser.”

“Show me a good loser, and I’ll show you a loser, mate.” Dele tapped out a message again, considered it, deleted it again. 

“You’re being weird. If you win the next two matches, you’re in line for second place. No one really expected Tottenham to win. Anyway,” Patrick leaned back in the sofa, and crossed his feet at his ankles. 

Dele scrolled through to football mob, waiting for any news, his heart doing a sharp tap against his chest when he saw Gus Hiddick going down at the edge of the tunnel. Suddenly, he didn’t want to host Patrick anymore. 

“I think I’m for bed.”

“Let me put these dishes in the dishwasher, and I’ll get out of your hair.”

“I can do that, thanks.”

Patrick, bless him, actually knew how to take a hint. One of the many reasons why they had been friends this long. “Fine. I’ll g-” Patrick now interrupted by the phone chiming in his pocket, he opened it, his eyes following the line of the text, and he smiled. Dele steeled himself for whatever followed. 

“Reuben says hi.”

Dele rolled his eyes. Up to now, at this moment, Loftus-Cheek had been an alright bloke. Was there something in the Chelsea DNA that made their players absolute tosspots at the worst possible time? 

Two fingers at Patrick said what he needed to say. As quick as whiplash, Patrick snapped a picture with his phone, both of them knowing that it would be sent on to Reuben, the Chelsea academy talent who managed to stay at the club, whereas Patrick was on loan to Norwich. 

“Night, Patrick.”

Patrick stacked the dishes on the tray, before his hands stilled. He turned to Dele with a broad grin. “You thought Tottenham would have smashed it, that’s why you invited me here, didn’t you?”

Dele studiously looked at his nails for a few seconds, satisfied that he wouldn’t have to cut them again. “Probably.”

“Wanker!” Patrick guffawed, wagging his finger at Dele, “and I made you dinner, too!”

Dele made a point of looking at his watch. “You’re still here?”

“I’m going, I’m gone.” Patrick tugged at a shock of his hair, sketching a bow. “Guv’nor.”

As Patrick put his shoes on by the door, Dele shouted down the short passage that separate his front room from the exit, “You’re the worst defending Champions ever, mate. Shite club.” 

“At least we’re champions, you bottlers. If you bottled anymore, you’d be able to supply the whole of Bordeaux’s wine making needs.” 

“At least we can be recycled, you noxious plastic.” 

“But you couldn’t beat Leicester.” Patrick hooted, before he closed the door behind him, lock sliding into place. 

Dele reached for the remote, and clicked off the TV, the quiet falling over the room with the suddenness of a shroud. 

“Shit banter,” he said to no-one in particular, idly tapping at the screen saver with his thumb. For the fourth time of tapping out a message to Eric, and deleting it, he decided to call. After two rings, the phone picked up. 

On the other side of the line, he heard the muted sounds of Capital FM in the background, the stinger _Capital FM_ chiming in the background. 

“Dell-boy.” Eric answered finally, voice sounding raw. “I -” he broke off, making a noise suspiciously sounding like a sob. Quiet for a few seconds, before Eric cleared his throat. 

“Still on these shores, then?”

“Yeah,” Dele answered, shrugging his shoulders as if Eric were in the same room. “I have some stuff to do with EA Sports, so I’ll be around.”

“I guess you saw.”

“Nightmare.”

“I can’t speak right now,” Eric said after a while. “I’m -” he broke off with a shuddering sigh, “I’m sorry.”

“We can meet up tomorrow after training, I-”

“Poch has given us tomorrow off.”

“Erm...” Dele’s mind went blank temporarily, yet his senses came alert all at once. “Eric-”

“Tomorrow, Dele, _please_. I’ll be free tomorrow if you want, but not _now_.”

“Okay, tomorrow. We could meet at Seven Sisters and go from there?”

“Yeah, sure. Tomorrow. Text me.”

***

Tomorrow had been this morning, Eric rocking up in dark clothes that shrouded his frame, his beanie shading his eyes from the weak sun, as if in the grip of a bad hangover. The great thing about being in London and having six Premier League clubs in the same city was that no-one overly cared about Premier League players in their midst. They darted from train to train, the crowds thinning by the time they got to Hammersmith.

Thirty minutes in, and they had the luxury of being seated, their thighs brushing each other’s. Dele kept his headphones on, his body lightly swaying as Lethal Bizzle’s _Pow_ flowed over a sick beat. You couldn’t beat a classic grime track, and this one was mint. 

Still, every now and then he looked across at Eric, his profile familiar, the muscle in his jaw twitching, as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t. He had been like this for the past thirty seven minutes. Between the Red Tops on the tube, with the pictures of the match the night before, news and texts from Kevin, Sonny and Tripps making his phone dance in his palm, the events of last night started to take shape. 

A slingshot of time to now, where they were now ‘enjoying’ a tree top walk. According to the bumf, the path one hundred metres long and eighteen metres high. High enough to see the patchwork of green on green, interspersed with the elongated shape of a lake called Sackler Crossing circled by what seemed from this distance to be toy trees. Nearer to them, in terms of nose and eye view, the canopy of trees acted like a natural ‘curtain’ where you had to push at leaves and branches to see beyond the rail. 

The view stretched out into blue and green haze. At this height, the temperature a bit cooler, and Dele had his hood up, his hands in his jeans, because you felt the chill. 

“Last night,” Eric started, still leaning against the railing, looking out at the distance, “ _fucking Chelsea_. Played wank all year. Hazard has been missing to the point of football doing _Crimewatch_ ads asking after his form all season, only to appear last night.”

“Twelve yellows and none for Costa, that was jokes,” Dele scoffed, as he yanked his headphones from his ears and they fell around his neck like a funky necklace. “You should have been on your third yellow, I think.”

“Two yellows make a red.”

“Not the way Clattenburg was dishing them out,” Dele held up his hands face height, and made an exaggerated motion as if he were brushing off the dust from his hands. “He made it rain. Yellow cards though, not you know, money.”

Eric laughed, and it sounded bitter and brittle. “Last season, we got to the Capital Cup final, three days after a Europa League match. Guess who we meet? Chelsea. Guess who won? Chelsea. They spend all the time trashing us in the media, and I’m like, that’s fine, you twats. It is, because we’ll do ‘em, we’ll smash ‘em and-” Eric’s hands formed into fists, his breath shuddery. “We walked into it,” he lightly tapped his closed fist against his mouth. “Stupid.”

“Diet-”

“We should have _won_ , we should have closed out the game,” Eric rounded on him, getting in his space, his finger jabbing in his direction. “ You should have been there, Dele,” Eric’s voice wavered on the last sentence. “You should have been _there_.”

 

As soon as the words slipped out Eric’s mouth, he regretted them. 

Dele’s head jerked as if he’d been sucker punched, and he took a step back and offside. For someone who played on the edge in his matches, lead astray by the lash of his temper, off the pitch, he had more control. 

“Dele,” Eric reached for him, but Dele took another step out of reach. “This walk isn’t going to finish itself,” he said, academy lad polite, before slipping his headphones on. 

Kew Gardens had been Dele’s idea, suggested this morning when they met. Dele unable to be missed at the entrance near Seven Sisters wearing multi-coloured chevron Adidas hoodie, ubiquitous baseball cap, trendy distressed jeans and some sneakers called Yeezys. 

“I’ve never been,” Dele’s grin puckish, as he sold the idea. “I figured it might be better than staying in and playing _Call of Duty_ , but if you want...”

“No,” Eric stirred enough to smile, because seeing Dele made him feel better. “I’ve always been curious, but moving here from Portugal, settling down in London and- you know what it’s like, moving somewhere new.”

Dele’s grin only sharpened. “I have some idea.”

The hustle and bustle of catching the tube helpful, each activity bringing him back to normal. From swiping his railcard and going through the turnstiles, to reading the directions on the walls of the station with the tube diagrams. Victoria to District line, flying past places he’d heard about, when he spent the last ten years living away from England. 

_Mind the gap_ the tinny female voice admonished before you stepped on, and as you stepped off. The trains flew around the tube, the wind in the tunnel making him tug the edge of his beanie further down his face. 

Last night- and he couldn’t think what happened before he grabbed at Fabregas- it was as if he’d blacked it out. From to time, when his thoughts darkened and crowded his head, he’d turn to Dele, who bounced in his seat to whatever he was listening to. 

“Grime,” Dele had said once, once he seized control of the music in the locker room, banishing all Beliebers to the periphery. It just seemed like frantic rapping over a minimal frenetic beat and the odd interspersed sounds at random spaces. “It’s sick, mate. Let me show you.” 

 

Now, he heard Stormzy’s _Shut Up_ from Dele’s headphones, as they sort of doubled back on themselves to walk towards The Pagoda. All around them, the flora a riot of colour against the shades of green. The air taking on the sharp scent of compost as they were downwind of the compost heap, walking down the dappled path by Woodland Glade, the trees providing shade and the sharp, green notes of tree resin. The entire place the quintessential English pleasure garden, but multiplied by well... a _lot_. Given that it was a late Tuesday morning, people were thin on the ground, and those who were there were mostly tourists from outside of London. 

Some languages he recognised, the sharp edges of Spanish, the creaminess of French, and the sibilant sounds of Portuguese. The last language he knew as well as he knew English, and instinctively, he looked for the source, the couple who walked by them arm in arm, the girl with the dancing eyes teasing her boyfriend in Portuguese about eating at the nearby restaurant, and him warning her about English food, leaving a trail of perfume that smelt like the gardens they’d passed through. 

Before them, The Pagoda loomed in the distance, above the already stout trees that stood tall and lined their path. A tower with multiple eaves, ending with a strange sort of tip. There used to be dragons decorating the tiers, according to his phone, but even without the dragons, it was still Instagram worthy. 

The ground underfoot as far as the eye could see, as level and well manicured as a Premier League pitch, the grass green and even. He turned to Dele, wanting to share the observation and moments with him, only for Dele to still be bobbing to his music. Not grime now, but that poppy song about taking pills in Ibiza that was everywhere right now. 

For the first time, he realised physically how Dele had changed. He’d always been tall- they were about the same height- but now he seemed to be filling out. His biceps a bit more rounded. With Dele, he’d always be lean, but he didn’t look like the sketch of a nineteen-year-old who rocked up at Spurs in the preseason anymore. 

Because he could not resist, Eric reached over and touched his forearm to get his attention, his fingers staying a little too long even after Dele stopped and turned to him, one hand lifting a headphone off his ear to hear him. 

“I’m sorry I said what I did, I shouldn’t have.”

“You’re allowed,” Dele pulled his headphones off, they now resting around his neck and on his clavicle, as he turned to face Eric, the brim of his cap casting a shadow across his features. 

“Dele, don’t do this,” Eric reached towards him before stopping in mid-movement, yanking his hands back, and curling his fingers into his fists. “Just -”

“Don’t you think I know what I did? That I wish I could go back in time and just not do it?” 

“Or be sneakier about it.”

Dele jerked back, his voice trembling with temper. “You _knob_. The cheek, lecturing me on _my_ behaviour when you pulled off an absolute shocker last night.”

“If you’d been there, I probably wouldn’t have done, because I’d have been looking out for _you_!”

The last word vibrated in the empty space between them, and Eric realised that for all the walking, and supposed relaxing atmosphere at Kew, he was still on edge. He also realised that Dele wasn’t far from it either, if the look in his eyes was anything to go by. 

“So I’m a special case now.”

“Dele-”

“No, I’d like to know. I thought... I thought we were mates.”

“We _are_ ,” Eric said, “I didn’t mean.” He stopped, swallowed, and started again. “When you’re out there, it’s easier somehow. If I’d been looking out for you, I don’t think-” he stopped, because that line of thought would have been unfair, and changed tack instead. “Did you watch the match last night?”

A short silence, and you wouldn’t have believed Kew Gardens existed in a metropolis such as London, as library quiet as it was as Dele finally admitted, “Yeah.”

“Did you.” Eric rubbed at his nose, feeling the prickling there. “What do you know?”

“Dier-”

“Tell me.”

“It’s the newspapers, you know what it’s like. Half of the stuff they say, they don’t know.”

“Some of it is true.”

Dele’s raised eyebrows almost touched the brim of his cap. “How much are we talking?”

“Enough to be uncomfortable.”

Dele slipped his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, rocked back on his heels, his eyes narrowing into slits. He even titled the brim of his cap back a bit so that Eric could see his face, and his shadow of a widow’s peak that he kept shaved. Dele’s temper now banked, his features softer, the look in his eyes curious. 

“Go on.”

 

To Eric’s relief and a bit of shame, Dele had given Eric more than he had deserved. An opening, a chance to explain himself just that bit more. 

“I just felt --- Tottenham has always been known as bottlers, you know? Flash lads, attractive football, but when faced with grit from other sides, we used to back down. You know it, _‘Lads, it’s Tottenham’_ and, _‘it’s not that shit, but it’s not that great either, it’s just Tottenham’_. People have been saying it since I’ve been here. So we had to -” he looked away, staring at the Pagoda against the blue of the weak spring sky, only to swing his gaze back to his friend. 

“Be brave. If pushed, we push back but still play flash, I guess. Like you, you know? You came in, you were- I mean, you still are. Like, you never back down and always push back. I-” and suddenly, on the train track of _feeling_ , Eric ran out of words, his hands did that thing where he looked as if he had cantaloupes in his hands, trying to guesstimate their weights. 

Dele frowned, and Eric found himself at the end of an askance look, as if he’d suddenly grown two heads and a tail. Dele looked so shocked, Eric half turned just to make sure that he didn’t suddenly have a tail wagging from the back of his trousers. When his gaze met Dele’s again, he gave into what he was feeling, and touched Dele’s arm. 

“I lost it, I mean, we all lost it. It’s easy to say that we were goaded because it’s Chelsea, and they are a set of tossers, the whole lot, but-” he shook his head. “It’s not an excuse. Just because we’re being painted as a panto villain in Leicester’s Christmas story doesn’t mean that we should have acted like it.”

Linking his hands behind his head, Dele looked down at his shoes, and looked up at Eric. “I get it.”

“I-” Eric stopped, pressing his hand across his eyes, because he still wasn’t-

“Ah, mate,” Dele drew him into a hug with one hand, and dragged his headphones off his neck with the other. Eric closed his eyes as he tucked his head in the hinge between Dele’s neck and shoulder, breathing in the sun warmed scent of Dele’s clothes and skin. Another catalogue of scent added to the rest of those in the gardens, but it didn't soothe his upset. 

His eyes had the same tell tale prickle in the locker room, before the interview. Then in his car last night, his hand covering his mouth with Dele’s voice on the line. In the shower this morning, before he’d even come out of his flat. 

“I-” Eric breathed as last night’s result hit him again. 

“We lost,” Dele crooned, his voice deeper as it reverberated through his body, and Eric felt the vibration of the words from Dele’s body to his. “There’s no shame in losing.”

“Rubbish. Remember the first time we met? You yourself said how some players were comfortable than they should be with losing.”

“You remember that?” Dele laughed, as Eric felt himself being rocked gently to and fro. “I was quite the philosopher in my youth.”

“Knob.”

Dele laughed again. 

“I wanted us to win.” Eric swiped his beanie from his head, and used it to surreptitiously wipe at his eyes. “I thought -” 

“Mathematically, it was a long shot, I think,” Eric sighed as Dele rubbed his back like one would do with a fussy sibling. Long, slow comforting strokes designed to lull all the cares away, break down the inhibition to cry, just so that the sibling could get over the tantrum and go draw on walls with crayons or stick their fork into an electrical outlet or eat dirt. Or something. He knew that move, because he’d been raised around a brood of siblings too. That didn't stop his insides from humming as if bees were trapped in there

“I don’t want us to be nearly men,” he said after a while, “Where we good enough go into finals, and down the w-w-wire only not t-to w-win. S-sometimes-”

“I know,” Dele murmured, pressing his lips against Eric’s head, and that did it. Eric held on to him tightly, mourning over the draw that was really, a chance lost. Last night, he’d let himself down, they’d let themselves down. 

“It only hits you when it’s really gone,” Eric's voice broke on a sob, pressing the heel of his hand to his eyes.

***

“You know, if Kyle were up for it,” Dele said a lot later, “ we could go and dig up King Richard’s bones and rebury them in that bloody Leicester car park.”

That forced an unwilling chuckle from Eric. His crying jag had passed, and he felt a bit better. Not a lot, but that feeling would only improve with time and some wins. Hopefully for the last home game. 

“Poch’d kill us.”

“He wanted to win too.”

Eric nodded, he felt strong enough to step away, but didn’t want to. Not just yet- but soon. Normally in the dynamic of their relationship, he’d been the one to take lead, to guide. Not so much here, because he realised with a start that Dele had already won a title when he lead his club to promotion before he returned to Tottenham. Even without that honour to his name, you got the feeling Dele backed himself to have enough grit within to weather through emotional fallouts of the sport without falling apart. 

“Thanks,” Eric raised his head, rubbing at his hair, suddenly feeling self conscious. “I think I ruined your hoodie.”

Dele shook his head, their heads close enough for Eric to feel the humid warmth of Dele’s breath on his lips, and smell the spearmint of the gum he constantly chewed. “You’re alright, seriously. Climacool, easy care, and you know what I’m like. Besides,” a careless shrug at this, “If I want, I can get another one.”

“You know, when they make a movie about Leicester, they going to have us as the toffs with the dodgy home county accents. I can only imagine what they’ll have you like.”

“That’s not a movie I’m going to watch anytime soon, I don’t think,” Dele’s smile was wry as his tone. “I got spoilt for the ending, and it’s shocking.”

“We should start getting back,” Eric said, stepping out of Dele’s embrace before he did something stupid.

Dele looked at his watch, doing a double take as he saw the time. “Yeah, you’re right. But -” Eric found himself at the end of a searching look by Dele. “Are you _alright._?”

“If we finish above Arsenal, I’ll be fine. Will you...for the last home game, I mean.” Eric broke off, sticking his beanie in the pocket of his jacket. “Will you be there?”

Dele tugged at the brim of his cap, covering his features in shadow. “Yeah. I’ll be there.”

“Okay,” Eric nodded, feeling light headed, and drained allowing himself to be pulled into Dele’s half hug. He didn’t feel fine _right now_ but he felt better than he did last night. Still tender, but starting to heal, as if he were growing new skin, and that had to be at least something. "Thanks, I owe you one."

"I think so too. Patrick came by my house last night."

"Oh God," Eric laughed, pressing his hand to his eyes. "I'm so _sorry_. I bet you had him cooking dinner, didn't you?"

"He _offered_ ," Dele sniffed, "it would have been mean to refuse."

"Right." It was a well known fact that Dele couldn't cook, and seemed to have a knack of making friends with people who could. "I'm sure that went down well."

"By the time you got your yellow card, it almost came back up. Like, " Dele held up his hand, a needle's width worth of space between index and thumb finger "This. It was touch and go."

"Poor love," Eric mocked, and realised, if he could joke about this, things weren't _that_ bad. Roll on next season, because this one was a bust, anyway. 

**Fin**

**Author's Note:**

> Round up of links to give this story context
> 
>  
> 
> [Tottenham had to beat Chelsea at Stamford Bridge to win. Spurs and Chelsea have a strange sort of rivalry, as in, most Spurs supporters don't recognise it - not as much as they do so say, Arsenal, but Chelsea supporters remember the players who left Stamford Bridge for Tottenham Hotspur in the 1960s/70s. With their oil money and new Russian owner in the early naughties, Chelsea left Spurs behind. But this match was the one, and Chelsea's players had said that they wanted Leicester to win over Spurs, and John Terry said that Spurs weren't going to win at The Bridge under his watch. The match started well, only for Spurs to give up a two goal lead and the game became ill tempered. Tottenham Hotspur got a record nine yellow cards (the most for any PL team) and twelve yellows were given out in total. With the draw at The Bridge, Leicester Foxes won the title, at odds of 5000 to 1. ](http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sport/football/article-3572928/Chelsea-Tottenham-set-FA-charges-face-bad-tempered-Battle-Bridge-derby-Wednesday.html)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> [Eric Dier's interview with Tottenham Hotspur after they did their lap of honour for the last home game where they lost 1- 2 to Soton](http://www.tottenhamhotspur.com/news/first-team/match/preview/this-is-just-the-start-eric-dier-050516/)
> 
>  
> 
> [Eric Dier's post match interview to Sky where he's pretty upset at the result but has to pack it in and do the interview](http://www.skysports.com/watch/video/10267543/dier-proud-of-ourselves)
> 
>  
> 
> [Kew Royal Botanical Gardens is a green area/national park just outside Richmond, London. It takes a while to get there, and pretty expensive to get in, but it's worth seeing even once](http://www.kew.org/visit-kew-gardens)
> 
>  
> 
> [Attractions you can find at Kew Gardens, it's pretty expensive to get in, but it's impressive.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7ngHhWAFzBc)
> 
>  
> 
> [People tend to meet each other at the entrance of tube stations, and you get on your train and go. It beats driving in London, tbh](http://www.rome2rio.com/s/Seven-Sisters-Greater-London-England/Kew-Gardens-Underground-Station)


End file.
